


Sirens

by sudapigrafool



Category: 30 Seconds to Mars, Angels & Airwaves
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudapigrafool/pseuds/sudapigrafool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Authorship: Polydeuces<br/>Summary: The story of a man caught between obsessions. Other people’s.<br/>Matt-centric bit of fiction that takes place around the period of time when he left 30STM and joined AVA. Canon-ish with liberties taken. Lyrics from "Sirens" by Angels & Airwaves, I-Empire.<br/>Warning: Tom DeLonge.<br/>Also, prompted by Matt Wachter's thank you note on 'I-Empire' that reads -- "…last, but certainly not least, Tom, David and Atom for showing me that it can feel like this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*****

_"There’s a weakness_   
_In the window._   
_I place my footprints_   
_In the dark room._

*****

There’s a bullet with your name on it. Isn’t that what the old soldiers say? His had found him in El Paso, whizzing through the dark night like a tracer, winding its swift, sparking trail through the strobe of lights and the swirling smoke.

Had he seen it coming? Oh, yeah. There had been plenty of fair warning. And this was exactly how he’d always wanted to go out. Fighting. Weapon in his hand. Snare hammering behind him like automatic rifle fire; beneath him, heat radiating off the stage.

All around him, heads nodded slowly. Then one looked up. Just… maybe he never imagined it would be ‘friendly fire’? Tom’s brow wrinkled in perplexity.

It was a fair question. No. No, Matt shook his head. They’d both always understood how it would be.

"It was a mindset all its own, y’ know? I can’t… You can’t know what it was like," How strange, Matt thought, listening distantly to the tale he heard his own voice telling. His tone, the measure of the words, sounded neutral enough. Or, was that finally apathy? How apathetic can a man become when he’s got his head in the stocks? He wondered. Over time, he’d begun to realize, he simply must have gotten used to it.

"Well, I think I know something about what it’s like, in general," Tom replied quietly. Which, Matt reasoned, was probably true up to a point. "And," Tom continued, "I know exactly what it’s like the moment the thing you’ve been doing for so long and with such a passion suddenly turns into something else." Like, being pilloried every night. "And Matt, it doesn’t have to be that way."

So, it started. Another courtship. Another cosmic battle between the fire that burns and the one that brings the light.

*****

_"There’s lonely voices,_   
_like a scarecrow,_   
_In the hallway,_   
_like a lost ghost."_

*****

"If it’s Tuesday this must be… Milwaukee?" Little joke. She’d smiled back at him with a twist of irony on her lips.

It was Boston. Just a one-night stand with a band he’d previously only known in passing. And, truth be told, it had been a while since he’d play that kind of city-after-city, don’t blink or you’ll miss it, frenetically paced tour schedule where the bus stopped somewhere in the middle of another look-alike urban landscape and you searched the road signs trying to figure out where the hell you were.

Tonight, it was something totally different. This was his invitation to the ball, and Boston could never be any other place than Boston. Not for him, at least.

On top of that, there were women here. Not groupies, not fanwhores. Not femme-bots on the other end of techno leashes who drifted in and out at the touch of a text message, but real women. Women who alternately smiled and sighed. Who would lug their own suitcases. And who, he’d been told, would occasionally order the entire mission to a halt somewhere along the highway for the sole purpose of going off to buy juice boxes for the kids. Here, there was one woman in particular who snuggled warmly, and kissed gently, and wore the scent of home.

"Of course," Tom remarked quietly. "They’re part of who we are. Just not all of who we are."

*****

_"In the bedroom_   
_I see a shadow._   
_From the moon_   
_With light from a candle._   
_On a bed frame lies a girl._   
_Her reflection in the mirror."_

******

Matt gazed over at his new front man maintaining a long, sustained silence. He told himself he was merely entertaining a purely analytical interest in Tom, and nothing more. The coarse backstage lighting chiseled at the contours of his openly expressive face, making him look older than he did in pictures. He was taller too, Matt was thinking, realizing it was a completely relative sort of comparison, but one that made him feel safe. As if perhaps this man might be someone he could actually lean the weight of his life on, and Tom would bear it.

The club itself was dark and practically sooty with the years of accumulated cigarette smoke, but it echoed with the crowd’s energy. They knew exactly who they’d come to see. Matt wrestled nervously with the low vibration of all their aggregate anticipation. This could still go wrong. Sure, he’d been rehearsing affably enough with the band for a while now, but suddenly he was worried it was too much, too soon.

David’s shoulder nudged up against his as they stood side by side in the blue-black shadows.

"Not getting cold feet, are you?"

"Nope," Matt lied.

"Good," the guitarist nodded. Then, after a moment of silence, he added, "The first time I played a gig with Tom it was at home in San Diego in front of only about, like, five hundred people. But I was so nervous, he had to remind me to breathe."

An almost silent huff of amusement escaped Matt’s lips. "When you play your first gig with Jared, you’re lucky if he _lets_ you breathe." In unison, his startled companions choked on sudden spurts of laughter. "Air," Matt drawled slowly, "is a privilege Jared reserves for your third or fourth show together."

"That bad, huh?" Tom’s eyes twinkled at him through the dusky half-light.

"Nah, I’m joking." Sort of. "I don’t really know how Jared got that reputation. For being difficult. Yeah, he can be demanding, and exacting, but he’s also very supportive." In fact, it was tough to put into words precisely what sort of bond Jared shared with his band mates. Extremely. So, Matt didn’t try.

From a short distance away, one of their techs gave Tom the thumbs up. Immediately, David moved off, getting ready to make his entrance from the other side of the small stage. Unhesitatingly, Tom’s hand made its way around the back of Matt’s neck, radiating warmth into the tight muscles there. He drew him closer. So close that, when he spoke again, a ghostly resuscitation of warm air brushed delicately over his new bassist’s lips.

He said, "Breathe."

*****

_"It’s a dark night._   
_On the west coast._   
_Then a soft breeze. As the sun rose._   
_Then the phone rang._   
_Like a gunshot._   
_Like a Siren._   
_On the beach rocks."_

*****

Don’t forget to breathe tonight. Tonight’s the last so say goodbye.

If only it were that easy.

On the surface, the transition was swift if not altogether painless. That last night they'd worked together Matt hadn’t been able to decide if he should mention anything to Tim about what was likely to happen next, or let him find out on his own. Lost in the whirlpool of his indecision, he’d ended up saying nothing by default. Maybe it was just as well.

Taste of Chaos had toured on. Oddly, except for whenever the lights came up at night, 30 Seconds to Mars’ new bassist was practically invisible. Given only those little bits of detail that had leaked to the public, outsiders were having a hell of a time reading into this latest Marsian mystery. But plainly, Matt realized, at the last moment something must have gone wrong. It was clear Tim was having no trouble meeting Jared’s challenge on stage, but off stage seemed to tell a different story. Or, maybe it was Tim who was deliberately keeping his distance? Subtly, pleasantly, cheerfully to be sure, but still.

Somehow the overall effect of his suspicions left Matt feeling like he was caught in a strange, unpleasant kind of limbo. Not that Jared still retained any sort of hold over him in the contractual sense. No, nothing like that. While they hadn’t been able to make a perfectly clean break of it, the only real leftover mess was strictly the type of thing lawyers and bean counters could fix up without any input from him, or Jared. Forget about it, Matt counseled himself about Tim's situation. It’s none of your fucking business. He presumed to move forward with his own life, exactly as he’d intended.

First, there was the small house in a quiet California suburb and a lease with an option to buy. And then, there was the silence that came with it; long days of relaxing into the nothingness of "being." Until, finally, he’d noticed how the formerly therapeutic stillness had suddenly become nothing more than a droning background buzz of _waiting_. And the nerve-wracking emptiness of an ill-defined future based on a personal quest to find "happiness." Followed by the cracking, splitting sound of things collapsing under the weight of those expectations.

That’s when the phone rang.

Immediately, the voice on the other end plowed over him like a steamroller. It paused for only a split second to identify itself, Tom DeLonge. Matt caught himself clutching the cordless handset to his ear a trifle too desperately while enthusiasm beamed out of it like solar rays. Momentarily, he experienced a brief sensation of vertigo, and a peculiar déjà vu caused by the passionate outpouring of words rushing past him. Even if he’d ever had any intention of telling the man on the other end "maybe," somehow it came out "yes." After hanging up the phone and standing for several long moment in motionless perplexity--wondering how the hell that had happened--he realized, much to his dismay, he had been very well trained. Very.

When finally he confessed to all over dinner, she’d taken the news a lot better than he thought she would. In fact, she took it so well, she started helping him pack as soon as the dishes were done.

*****

_"I do this from time to time_   
_where I can never wake from a bad dream,_   
_I do this from time to time_   
_where I can never say the things I mean."_

*****

Now, weeks--and no small measure of confusion--later, Matt found himself sitting in a recording studio listening to Tom’s softer, less driven voice sharing some of his deepest feelings and his sense of vision for the new record. Not that he was displeased, he emphasized, with Matt’s tentative contributions so far. But, musically, he was saying, something more needed to happen between them.

The playback ended abruptly, leaving them in a penetrating silence. Matt’s head bounced up and down thoughtfully. At least he hoped he looked thoughtful, not petrified. Why, he wondered, did these things always start in the recording studio? Late at night. When it was only the two of you, surrounded by the intimacy of low light and the thrumming bass pulse of that ever-present life force tuned just below the threshold of human hearing.

"Let’s take a break." Hands slid under Matt's guitar strap, slipping it over his head and leaving him feeling undressed. "I hope I didn’t say anything that upset you."

"No! No…" he blurted, letting the casual flip of his hand assert denial. But, there was no way to shrug off the simple, heartfelt concern beneath Tom’s question. It hung in the air surrounding them and clung to Matt’s skin demanding more of an answer. "I, uh…"

Predictably, perhaps, the sensation of phantom fingers suddenly clenched closed around his throat, choking off any further response. Dazedly, his faltering gaze latched onto the way Tom’s hands were cradling his bass. Gently, they lowered it into its stand, and then returned to rest on Matt's shoulders.

"It still hurts." Tom’s voice probed knowingly into Matt's silence. His eyes were a warm, receptive hazel brown.

This guy never blinks either, Matt thought, his mind recoiling and digressing defensively, wondering where the hell that other band came up with the name... "What?" he coughed, as if he didn't understand.

"Here." The soft part of Tom’s hand stroked across his neck, right where the unresolved tension was tightest. "And here." Leaning up and forward, warm, dry lips brushed against Matt’s temple. So carefully.

A single, achingly constricted word of confession escaped the vacuum in Matt's lungs, "Yeah," then sank into the soundproofing without leaving a trace.  
  
"It doesn’t have to. Not anymore. Not if you don’t want it to."

Recognition stabbed at him. Intuition flared. Like lightning, splitting open the dark place just beyond his comfort zone. His eyes snapped closed, searching the sparkling darkness behind his eyelids. And exactly fucking _when_ , Matt wondered, had he started wanting it to?

There were arms slowly gathering him into the warmth of an embrace. His response felt raw and uncensored as he slid into its consolation. The tightness around his throat spread sharply downward to his chest where a light stroke of fingertips trailed after it. With a small gasp, Matt’s eyes flew open barely in time to see Tom’s parted lips hovering less than an inch above his own.

*****

_"I like your eyes wide._   
_I’m knocking at your backdoor._   
_Nervous like a knife fight._   
_Be careful what you ask for…"_

*****

-stop


	2. Chapter 2

*****

_"I do this from time to time_   
_Where I like to watch you as you sleep._   
_I do this from time to time_   
_where I like to think of you with me…"_

*****

His fingers slid surreptitiously over his band mate’s as the other grasped blindly for his holstered phone.

"Not now," a pair of warm lips demanded, pressing intimately against Jared’s ear. They were his lips, in fact, and the memory was still quite vivid to him. As was Jared’s meek compliance, because that sort of thing didn’t happen very often.

"Why?" Jared had replied softly. His hips were doing that contradictory thing where they leaned into Matt’s groin while at the same time his shoulders were twisting away. "What’s going to happen now that takes precedence over me talking to my mother?" A tiny teasing smile flirted up from his eyes.

Matt had never understood himself to be the grasping sort, so imagine his surprise at suddenly finding his hands full of Jared’s pliant behind and his open mouth leering over Jared’s delighted laughter. God, he was perfect. For one more second Jared had squirmed around ambivalently in his arms while Matt hung on tenaciously. At last the fronts of their jeans had met in some kind of uncategorizable reaction. Some sort of irresistible, biocompulsive release of energy and heat. Instantly, lips were clinging to his lips in a warm, wet confrontation, and the merest bit of a tongue tip was flipping tauntingly over his kiss, inviting him in.

Matt’s firm hand went sliding down the back of Jared’s jeans following the trail of their worn denim center seam. Hungrily, he fingered the stiff ridge of fabric as their kisses grew deeper and wetter. His hands roamed freely over the two snuggly packaged mounds of flesh beneath his palms, then dipped down lower towards the tempting valley between Jared’s thighs. Unintentionally, a groan slipped out along with Matt’s next breath.

Jared had shifted and strained awkwardly against the clutch of Matt’s embrace until finally he’d managed to capture his bassist’s thigh between his own two legs. Then, slowly, they began rocking rhythmically against one another. That’s when the irritating sound of Jared’s phone suddenly jangled again.

Matt recognized the ring tone instantly.

"I better take this one," Jared had whispered apologetically.

Or else, he’ll come looking for you, Matt added to himself with a frustrated sigh.

Jared fumbled one-handedly to look down at the tiny, blue-lit screen, still clinging to Matt with his other hand.

"It’s Shannon." No kidding. "He says mom’s trying to call me."

That was then. Forever ago. Although to Matt, some days it still seems like only yesterday.

Today. Now. His Blackberry has been singing to him incessantly, tenaciously insinuating itself into his memories and making its Siren song. A low, importunate tune he knows he should have changed a long time ago. But, he hasn’t. And he hasn’t answered it yet, either. No. He’s been trying to ignore it and stoically guard all the inroads to his resistance.

The moment is coming, though, he can feel it. He just doesn’t want to read the message.

*****

_"There’s a message_   
_at the river,_   
_a certain package_   
_here to deliver"_

*****

Weeks had gone by. Before he knew it, they’d all be in London, but Matt wouldn’t let himself think about that now. Even if it was practically the only thing he could think about.

His hands jittered nervously. He needed to concentrate. One thing he’d learned during the time he’d spent with Tom together in the studio was that working with his new front man, more often than not, was like wrestling with him. All night long. Mentally, of course, and struggling to keep a responsible, professional distance. Which they did. Mostly. And yet, for Matt, everything about that experience had ached with longing and confusion.

Then, unexpectedly, he'd found himself worrying about his future again. Because just as the record was nearly finished, suddenly, he and Tom had come to another creative impasse. Over nothing, it seemed. But certainly there was _something_ going on. Going wrong, going under. By now, Matt figured he knew the signs well enough.

Tom’s brow furrowed cryptically. While Matt, very unsubtly, dug in. He wasn’t trying to be difficult, he just… couldn’t explain…how indistinctly, but urgently he felt the need to keep a little something back this time. To hang on to certain _things_ for himself. To draw his inarticulate line in the dirt and stick to his guns. To hold his position. So he did.

Tom stared quietly. The seconds crawled on between them while his eyes charted Matthew up and down, back and forth, until Matt felt as if his longitude and latitude had been taken. Finally, cautiously, Tom had launched into an impassioned monologue about the need for his "total commitment" to a sense of shared vision, and it was hard for Matt to see much of anything clearly after that. The rising tide of words that had swirled around him was filled with a dangerously familiar brand of personal persuasion. Plus Tom’s slightly crude humor. It was, Matt realized, virtually the exact same clever blend of all the right inspirational blahblahblah, only this time driven by his new band mate's passions. All delivered in an almost identical last ditch assault on Matt's defenses. He could feel the heaviness of Tom's need pushing him down and pulling him in. He was drowning, or maybe that was just the feeling he got because Tom had taken up all the oxygen in the room. Slowly, Matt’s field of vision narrowed down to a pin prick of light at the far end of an extremely dark tunnel. Momentarily, embarrassingly, he wondered if he was going to faint.

And then, silence. The pounding of the waves stopped and the weight of the water lifted. He felt beached, he felt drained. "Tell me about Ryan," Matt heard himself mumble, trying not to sound like he was gasping and straining at the last of his reserve.

"Why?"

Tom lounged back in his chair and sighed, his eyes resting on a darkened monitor sitting atop the studio console. He could feel the air around them crackling with uncertainty. Just moments ago, with cynical humor, he’d flippantly informed his new bassist that he seemed to be made of equal parts stubborn self-interest and eagerness to please. Making him a rather quixotic member of the team. Matt had responded by shuffling his feet and hunkering down over the aux sends and all but turning his back on him. An instant later, unexpectedly, the room was full of static.

Why what? Jesus fucking Christ. Matt had always hated having his questions answered with another question. "Just tell me," he insisted irritably. Yeah. If there was a specific route to rock ‘n’ roll’s perpetual revolving door, this time he wanted to make damn sure he wasn’t on it. Or, about to get washed overboard.

"No," Tom countered.

Well. That kind of said it all then, didn’t it?

Something in Matt’s subtle shift of stance must have spoken volumes about how unsatisfactory a response he felt he’d gotten, making Tom look up.

"Okay," Tom frowned unhappily, his brows steepled over his eyes. You could tell this was a conversation he’d never ever intended to start and a subject he had no desire to get into. "Ryan had other priorities."

"I see," Matt muttered, agitatedly twiddling the knobs beneath his fingers.

"No, I don’t think you do see." Insistently, a pair of hands began tugging on Matt’s belt loops, firmly enough to make him take a short step backwards and fight for balance. "Come, come, come…" Tom crooned in a soft whisper. Grudgingly, Matt’s feet inched towards his band mate’s voice while his eyes glued themselves to the far corner across the studio. The sound of worn leather sighed as Tom rose from his seat.

"It was not about the music, in the strictest sense," he tried to explain. "It was more like, Ryan was never really with us." Matt felt his back collided with Tom’s chest. He noted how solid the man seemed, and how he stressed the use of the word "with." A steady hand was sliding around Matt’s waist, the heat of it radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt and making the skin on his belly tingle. Gently, a feather-like trace of breath passed over Matt's cheek. "Ryan didn’t want the same things the rest of us wanted."

"Such as?" Matt’s voice rasped tightly. I want, his thoughts echoed, reverberating somewhere down in his gut. I want…

"He didn’t understand about loyalty and fidelity the way you do."

Loyalty. And fidelity. The words cut into him unexpectedly like a concealed weapon, releasing blood. And memories.

Like a knife fight, you mean.

"He really wanted his freedom," Tom said quietly. With each soft word, a brush of stubble grazed the skin along the side of Matt’s face. "He just didn’t know how to ask for it constructively."

So? You cut him loose? Yes, you did. Matt’s mouth twitched with the irony; he felt the arm around his waist tighten as it began guiding him to turn. You cut him, and… Murder, his eyelids fluttered. My darling. Realization struck him like a second sharp blow.

His voice caught in his throat, "I didn’t want my freedom." Not really, although at the time I thought I did.

"I know that," Tom whispered, understanding there was a need.

The hand that was not resting on Matt’s stomach reached up to cradle the back of his head. "But, you’re here now. With me."

*****

_"When the day breaks._   
_After nightfall._   
_I will be there._   
_You know I will."_

*****

Living on a tour bus was a lot like life in a barracks, or so Matt had frequently imagined. The bunks, the lockers, the austere allotment of personal space. Everybody having way more information on everyone else than they ever wanted or needed, and at the same time, there were still those countless things you kept to yourself.

Motel rooms were something else entirely. Passive, indifferent. Isolating. Little islands of anonymity and mirrors you washed up on between the oceans of drama.

Tentatively, Matt stretched, pressing himself into the mattress and testing the knotted muscles along his spine. The bed beneath him creaked softly as his weight shifted. He stared up at the daggers of late afternoon sunlight streaked across the ceiling. Sharing a room was like sharing a secret and a moment in time you were just about to leave behind, already on the way to your next venue.

His evolution had continued. Touring and performing with his new band was not at all like the private, intimate world of recording with them, although there was still a lot of intensity between the four of them. And a lot of physical proximity, too. Rich and dense like smoke; blinding him like a laser. While Tom energetically worked the front of the stage, Matt -- good soldier that he was -- stood at his flank and manned his station. Pretty much the same as he did with the rest of his life now. Really, looking back, it seemed the only thing that had kept them all snug in their own separate compartments of inner space had been Matt’s hesitation. When that wall finally came down, in retrospect, all hell broke loose.

David shuffled over to his side of the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, close enough to Matt for his back to connect with the other’s hip. Clumsily, inconclusively, irresponsibly touching him. His long, lean legs fidgeted restlessly until they finally crossed together at the ankles and came to rest. Then, it seemed as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

This was so fucked. Like, Matt’s life wasn’t already complicated enough.

"She doesn’t travel with him all the time."

Meaning, Matt supposed, that Tom wasn't know for dragging his woman through his band battles in the past, so it was a good bet he wasn’t planning on bring her to this war either. Interesting choice.

"They here yet?" _They._ Literally, Matt swore he could feel David’s eyes running over him. Probing and searching for, anything. Everything. Tom’s personal director of homeland security.

"No." He knew Shannon and Tomo would be landing at Heathrow almost at the last minute. "Jared’s taking the train from Belgium."

"Oh."

Ha-ha-ha. Matt felt sure if David had come equipped with warning lights they would have suddenly begun flashing wildly. "You doin’ okay?" He was finessing the part about asking Matt how he happened to know the particulars of Jared’s itinerary.

"Peachy." Nicely put, Matt complimented himself. Maximum irony, minimum syllables, sweet and tart.

Nervously, David began fisting and flexing his hands, unconsciously making the hard curve of his biceps tense and relax in a way Matt found personally distracting.

"I know Tom, and I know he really wanted to be here for you right now. If he could have been. And he will be tonight. It’s just that she’s… but he and I, we’ve been through all kinds of shit like this together before, you know?"

You mean shit like coming eyeball to eyeball with the Letos? No, you mean what happened over Box Car Racer. Please. Nice of you to try, though. Maintaining a studied stillness, Matt turned David’s words over in his mind amending and translating wherever it seemed appropriate. _"Tom may be married to her, but he’s like a brother to me and I’ve known him longer. So."_

Here it comes. Matt stared at the bowed head, wondering if his new band mate actually thought any of his impending confession-proposition was going to sound unique, or unusual. Indecision and soft brown locks of David's hair were conspiring to hide his facial expression.

"We go back a long way together," the strained words came at last. "And it’s always been like we’ve been right there for each other no matter what. In ways I can’t even say. Like, after Blink…" David's hands were twisting restlessly. "And then being in a band together…"

Yes, of course, so that would be… _more_ than brothers even, Matt mused. As in, we’ve been fucking each other since we were sixteen. Uh-huh, I get it. And yeah, it’s that transparent.

Somewhere a clock was ticking off the hours and minutes until it would be time for them to go. Kerrang and its inevitable red carpet awaited. Matt’s buzz of anxiety hitched itself up another notch. Underneath that veil of hair, he saw David’s tongue slip out dabbing at dry lips, and recognizing he was not entirely opposed to the idea, Matt wondered if there was time enough to scratch that itch. Or, if it would be more trouble than it was worth.

"Well," David coughed slightly. "That’s a whole other level of connection. Which I guess you understand." Suddenly, he raised his head and met Matt’s eyes.

Most certainly, yes, Matt did understand. Like all good brothers, Tom and David shared everything.

"I want to be here for you, too. He’d want me to be."

How funny was that? But, not in the sense that Matt felt the urge to laugh.

Well, he wondered, why the fuck not?

*****

_"I like your eyes wide._   
_I’m knocking at your back door._   
_Nervous like a knife fight._   
_Be careful what you ask for."_

*****

\- stop


	3. Chapter 3

*****

_"I can hear_   
_you breathe._   
_I’m feeling_   
_the shake and the sound of_   
_my heartbeat."_

*****

Purposefully, with their album coming out in the fall, Geffen had somehow maneuvered Kerrang into granting them an award nomination. Which was not that big a deal, really. That’s how these things always worked. The appearance would be little more than an opportunity to be seen and create some industry buzz.

But it was odd, Matt reflected, because at the moment the sole band-related thing anybody seemed to be buzzing about was his abrupt departure from 30 Seconds to Mars. Only to suddenly reappear as the new bassist for Angels and Airwaves. The very thing nobody at the label wanted people wasting their time dwelling on.

So, yeah, Matt grimaced, terrible plan. And good fucking luck with that. Because somewhere still, out there floating around in the internet ethers, were all Jared’s sparse yet somehow meaningfully vague ruminations about Matt wanting to spend "more time with his family." Meanwhile, here he’d be, sitting ringside at the Kerrang Awards, watching as his former band mates collected trophies, with an entire ocean of distance plus one continent separating him from that incredibly special wife of his.

Obviously, none of that was going to add up to anything plausible.

Their car had pulled up in front of The Brewery before he’d even realized it, and whoever’d been sitting beside him had unsubtly elbowed him out the door. Like a private secret service, their small coterie of handlers surrounded him along with David and Atom, quietly slipping the three of them through the crowded courtyard. Meanwhile, Tom had wandered off alone, already in a pleasant alcoholic haze, searching for anyone with a camera and microphone he could compromise to his own advantage.

Inside, Matt found an entire venue afloat in legendary egos. The atmosphere spiked like a fever, fueled equally by the music world’s brand of fierce fraternal camaraderie and various high-octane jealousies that had evolved over the years. Not to mention the ritualistic, daylong, pre-event observance of better living through chemistry. It was a volatile mix.

Somewhere across the room he could literally feel a sharp, solitary pair of eyes stalking him silently. Closer by, he saw his band mate's cloud over in concern. Eventually, Tom came and sat down beside him, staring right past his beer and straight into the heart of the matter.

With a twinge of desperation, Matt fused his wobbly gaze onto the institutional white tablecloth under his elbows. Tom's undivided attention might actually have been making things worse. He pushed both hands into his lap and began compulsively picking at its threadbare hem until it started to fray. Kind of like Matt's nerves. The turbid tide of human noise ebbed and swelled around them while the too close, sick-sweet smell of whiskey-breath teased its way up Matt's nostrils. Heading straight for the place inside his skull where migraines were born.

And that, basically, pretty much described his whole evening start to finish.

Push. Slide. Push and slide. He tried bracing himself with his arms. Push and … slide.

No good. He needed to get his knees underneath him, or find a better place to get a good, firm grip on the edge of the mattress. Anchor himself against the headboard, maybe. Catch his breath. Unfortunately, Tom was already committed to the position they were in, huffing and mumbling in his ear with single-minded determination, working behind him with the monotonous resolve of a heavy equipment operator. The chafe of starched sheets bit into Matt’s skin with each rough thrust. He gasped and panted a little trying to shift their combined weight. Jesus, Tom was a heavy bastard. Beneath them, the bed groaned a strained metallic warning. As if encouraged by the sound, the hips above him began working more furiously.

Matt tried burying his nose in the pillow under his head. He struggled to keep his eyes pinched shut and pressed his lips closed against the crisp hotel linen. Unfortunately, he could still feel it, and hear it, and to some degree he could even still smell it. Add one more sensory invasion to the total experience and he figured his head might explode.

Not in the good way.

Not tonight.

*****

_"Can’t let go._   
_Do you know,_   
_I’m feeling the pain_   
_of my first love?"_

*****

The dark continent, he mused ironically. In how many ways had that description proved to be apt?

Even as far back as Africa, most times Matt could remember, Jared would at least keep his socks on. Because whenever his feet got cold they’d ache. Little did any of them realize how much worse it was going to be in the future, in that long stretch of time after "Chapter 27." Weeks after he’d quit fasting. Months after he’d lost all the weight. In spite of the fact that his blood work had been coming back normal, he would still be stumbling and limping his way through touring. Typical Jared. Forever testing the limits of his own tolerances and everybody else’s. But by then, after playing Chapman, it was like his thermostat had been permanently fucked and every time he’d get a chill, it went all the way down to his bones.

The muffled whisper of stockinged feet had exited the bathroom and come padding towards him across the carpeted floor. A tangle of dingy white crews bunched around his ankles, two inches of floppy toe space hanging off the ends of his feet threatening to trip him. Butt naked. Seeing anyone else like that, Matt might have had a hard time taking them seriously.

But this was Jared. And once he’d settled himself on the bed and into Matt’s arms, there was nothing silly about the deep thrum of desire that passed between them, or the wide, blue-eyed gazed that shook Matt to his roots.

In those days it was all so new, burning bright and hot between them. Moving like wildfire across Matt’s skin. Each moment had stretched out like hours in his senses. He’d savored the sound of his own tight breath gasping with need while there in the dark, under his fingers, he could feel the heated blush rising over Jared’s chest. He remembered.

How hips had arched up to meet him, strong and demanding; how their muscles had strained together in a rough rhythm; the wordless, deep-throated cry uttered straight from Jared's heart. He recalled all those things. Every detail. The chill of their mingled sweat cooling, and goose-bumps. The soft, cotton covered soles of Jared’s feet sliding down the backs of his thighs, warm like mittens. Memories ran over him like rain.

He’d rolled onto his side, pulling Jared with him, not letting go. A sleepy contented sigh had tickled against his throat. Snug under the covers, Jared’s finger ran lightly over the curve of his hip -- back and forth, back and forth -- a soothing repetitious motion, reassuring and calming. Like a child stroking a beloved blanket so he could fall asleep.

Hours later, Matt had woken to find himself alone surrounded by dull gray light, a development that didn’t really surprise him. Jared’s days were always crammed to the gills with a life so large twenty-four hours were barely enough to contain it. Never enough.

The bed still felt warm and safe as the night before, but Matt got up anyway. He wrapped himself in the oversized comforter and tried to guestimate the time. Jared’s call sheet and the pages of dialog he’d left propped on the bedside table were gone. Probably he was already on his way to the set. Cautiously, Matt picked his way through the dimness to the patio doors, searching the sky for the first signs of sunrise.

On the western horizon, a half moon was setting into the sea. Below him the restless ocean swelled around a lone, tenacious curl of land that jutted out among the whitecaps. So close to the house that last night, even in the heat of his passion, he’d heard the sound of waves tossing and breaking on the rocky point. The window glass was cool to his touch and gave him a prescient shiver. He’d stood there for a long time, expectantly. Waiting.

Finally, the sun rose slowly into a sky thick with wine-dark clouds the color of a bruise. Somewhere in the distance a bird’s plaintive call echoed like the sound of weeping. From the room next door came a melodic murmur from another one of Matt’s band mates, Tomo, tuning a guitar.

That was then. Today, it all seemed like a dream.

*****

_"… I won’t let it go._   
_Can’t let go."_

*****

If not for Atom, Matt thought he might, quite reasonably, go mad.

They were standing together in the middle of a high school football field while the uncontrolled panic of a video shoot cycloned around them. It had been a while since Matt had felt this out of place among his new band’s members, but today he was experiencing a clear case of brain shuffle, and liberally mixed in with his new reality, all the old stuff was playing loudly in his head.

Cheerleaders, pep rallies. You didn’t have to know rocket science to figure out that a big chunk of I-Empire was basically a paeon to the anarchy of Tom and David’s high school years, and the cult of anti-popularity that had ultimately propelled Tom to fame.

For Matt, by contrast, high school had been one long Kafkaesque nightmare of standardized tests and monitored hallways. He’d never been suspended, never got expelled. Hadn’t dropped out either, hadn’t joined a band, or a gang, or AA… never stole a car. His teenage rebellion had mostly been confined to a locked bedroom door and the shape of punk to come.

SATs, the agony of gym shorts. Then came college, the love of a strong woman, and last but not least, manning up to the challenges of life on tour.

On that journey, along with his guitar, he’d brought all of his convictions -- or maybe they were right and he was just stubborn. Rather quickly, Jared had replaced Matt’s bass with a choice of his own. Over time, the one thing Matt came to understand best about himself was that if he had one true gift it was for loyalty. To ideas, to people; that he would go to his personal limits and beyond for someone he loved. But, gradually he’d discovered his loyalties could be torn. Shredded, broken; boundaries penetrated like battle lines, and the next thing he knew his principles were mulch.

After the Kerrang awards life had settled down to something like normal. There had been a few other dicey moments along the way, though. Like getting through the gig at the Astoria, where Tom had felt the need to let a few eighty-proof thoughts off his chest. Mostly about air travel and the sanctity of marital relationships. Apparently, a passenger on his flight -- female -- had made him an offer he felt compelled to refuse, then wouldn’t take "no" for an answer. Later that night, near the end of their set, fatigue and frustration must have gotten the best of him. He’d delivered a dramatic monologue on the subject, hurling thoughts and sentence fragments like shrapnel at their unappreciative audience. And punctuating it all with the sticky vehemence of inebriated spittle.

Matt played on through their last song calmly, letting the transparent hypocrisy of it all wash over him with what was slowly becoming practiced indifference. Wondering, which was worse? Allowing himself be groped by this guy in a willful, if desperate, act of band-bonding fakery? Or, like back in the days of that other doomed relationship, when he’d actually fallen heels over common sense for a pathological liar. It was a rhetorical reflection, of course.

Then, sometime before the bridge, he’d glanced over at David and noticed the silent press and twist of emotion tugging on their guitarist’s firmly set lips. How did he get himself into these things?

So, yeah, Atom.

"We’ve been here for six hours now and we haven’t done one shot yet," he pointed out to Matt dryly. "You realize that? Not one shot of film, not one shot of alcohol…" he grunted, pulling deeply on his bottled water. "The least you could have done is brought the beer."

"Me?!" Matt squeaked, feigning surprise and indignation.

"You’re the new guy."

Sure, it was always that simple. "Sorry," he grinned.

"…no shot to the heart," Atom rambled. " _‘Shot to the heart, and you’re to blame!’_ …" Bored to the borderline of dangerous, he'd burst into song. "Or, epinephrine. You could have brought… Oh! Or, you know what? You could have brought one of those cardiac electroshock things. With the paddles? That coulda been fun…"  
  
Hahaha, God no. "Yeah, but I don’t see why it’s always gotta be me," Matt objected.

"Hey!" David yelled from the twenty-yard line. ‘No singing, Atom! That’s the deal!"

"Hazing," Atom explained, leaning in conspiratorially. "It’s band policy. Six months of hazing before you’re official."

"Oh-h, _hazing_ ," Matt drawled. "Is that what you guys call it?"

"’Cuz if you’re gonna sing," David continued, voice carrying loudly over the distance between them, "we gotta let Tom play drums!"

"Yeah, hazing. Like, initiation. Why? What’d they call it in that old band of yours?" Atom raised his Aquafina to his lips again.

"Sex." Not really, though. The sex came later.

Right on cue, Atom’s water spewed everywhere.

Still, between spasms of choking, he managed to holler back, "David! You know you’re the only one I ever want to play toms with!" And he held his arms open wide.

Toms, as in floor toms, Matt realized. Drums, just to be clear, which Atom and David did occasionally play together during a set. Not the DeLonge, Tom. But already he noticed a certain tall guy wearing a curious facial expression looking over in their direction.

A heartbeat later their front man was standing before them. "You guys into some kind of role play now where you take turns being me?" Tom's tone was mocking, but also clearly hopeful.

Matt wondered if it was just him or was all their laughter starting to sound a trifle hysterical? "Yes, Tom!" Atom was yelling a good deal louder than probably was absolutely necessary. "You guessed it!" He’d grabbed Tom by both arms and was giving him a firm shake. "That’s right! Because it’s all about you!"

"No, that’s not true," Tom corrected. "We have Matt now." He turned and squinted into the last of the fading sunlight. "So, what do you think?" he asked, making a large gesture towards the equipment-laden field. "Bet it wasn’t anything like this in Shangri-la."

Deep down in some still vulnerable place, Matt felt his insides shudder.

"Hengdian," he corrected.

"Yeah. What was that like?"

"Amazing." Devastating. "For the first twenty-four hours anyway. Then, hot and buggy. Tourists behind the fence. Fried scorpion on skewers."

"And they actually got you guys suited up in those Samurai outfits?" Atom wondered.

Whatever. "Well, yeah, but the real fighting was done by stunt professionals." Meanwhile, all the genuine bloodletting between band members was happening over dinner.

Someone near their makeshift stage had started up the fog machines. "For the dream-like effect," their director had insisted. "Because it'll be like everyone’s entering into a dream state." Dreams, thought Matt distractedly. You wanna film a video in a fucking dream state, try convincing your label to let you do it standing on an iceberg. Yeah, now you’re dreaming. Clouds of vapor began drifting into the air.

"I think we’re ready," Tom told them, and then turned to mount the stage.

Matt took up his position on the left, as always. Some things never changed. The playback started.

"I hate lip syncing," Tom whined to no one in particular.

Cradling his bass, Matt began rocking and swaying in place to the beat while plumes of smoke filled his eyes.

*****

_"I do this from time to time_   
_where I can never wake from a bad dream."_

*****

\- stop


	4. Chapter 4

*****

_"I do this from time to time_   
_where I can never say the things I mean…"_

*****

Backstage at The Music Box was a labyrinth of crowded offices and inadequate dressing rooms. Too many bodies crammed into too little space. A shared toilet, a mini-fridge stocked with bottled beer. Plus, the usual shortage of amenities Matt had come to associate with life on the road. Only tonight they weren’t actually on the road. In fact, they were practically in their own backyard. Nearly, but apparently not close enough.

When the subject of the Guitar Center performance first came up, Matt had objected immediately. "Wait," he’d stuttered, stopping Atom in mid-explanation. The fact that all the arrangements had been made without anyone so much as consulting him was only his first problem with the situation. Fact was, Shannon Leto would also be performing there. That was the bigger wrinkle.

Not to mention the part where, "We’re going to be staying at a hotel?" he repeated, his voice rising to an incredulous squeak. An idea which, to Matt, seemed kind of ridiculous. That after playing the Drum-off post competition show in LA, less than five minutes from the freeway and his quickest, most direct escape route to safety, they would not be heading for home.

"Right. Same place they’re holding the after party, yeah. Contestants, judges, performers, everyone’ll be there," Atom beamed. Everyone. Exactly. Friends of friends, whores, dealers, _brothers_. Matt’s temples throbbed. "The sponsors are paying for it all," his band mate nudged him, cheeks crinkling with satyric glee. "So, we figured why not?" We, Matt supposed, meaning him and David. And here, he thought, was a perfect example of single-guy think.

"Um, ’cause it’s not that far a drive home?" Matt pleaded. "We all live right here... " Doesn’t anyone else want to sleep in his own bed? With his own wife? Because, the deal as described did not seem to cover their legitimate women folk. Not that Matt was considering ducking behind his lady like a human shield or anything, but seriously, the days of Motley Crue were over.

Weren’t they?

"Yeah, but… driving back to San Diego at that hour. Two hours, minimum. Wasted. In the dark… "

Oh, yes. Yes, of course. This last part was all about Tom. Got it. Well, get him a fucking limo. It’d probably be cheaper.

For the next two weeks Matt had stewed on the matter and in the end decided it would be worth it, just for the sake of supporting Atom who was a fantastic drummer and an even better friend. But, in the meantime every possible scenario of impending personal disaster had played itself out in his over-wrought imagination. And now his nerves were worn raw from the anxiety and the anticipation of potentially having to confront Big Brother Leto with Little Brother in tow.

Jared. The dread that dared not speak its name, or however the fuck you wanted to put it.

She’d kissed him good-bye at the door saying, "You’ll be fine." Aware of how frazzled he’d been feeling, but believing it had something to do with performing again after the long break. And more than willing to let her think that, he’d held her in his arms silently while kissing her back. Hanging on perhaps a moment too long.

Finally, wordlessly, he let her go. Knowing there was nothing more that could be safely said.

He’d crawled into the driver’s seat of his car and flicked the ignition, backing slowly out of the driveway and into the pitiless glare of the afternoon sun. Fighting with his conscience and the morbid sensation he was driving himself to his own funeral.

*****

_"I do this from time to time_   
_where I like to watch you as you sleep…"_

*****

Unloading in the alley behind the theatre had been a bitch. With a little assist from the venue’s very overworked crew, they’d lugged practically all their equipment in by themselves. Then, Matt had fumbled his way to their assigned dressing room, already over-crowded with other performers. Everywhere around him, the room reverberated with the noise of too many voices and the patter of drumsticks rapping against any and every imaginable sort of surface. Shuffling and sidestepping to where David was seated, he set down his guitar case and suppressed an involuntary twitch. From somewhere out on stage came the sound of someone still rehearsing even at this late hour, while right around the next corner he swore he could hear Shannon’s maniacal laughter haunting the shadows.

"You don’t really remember me, do you?" David’s dark, unreadable eyes were staring up at him.

"What?"  
  
"We met a long time ago, like almost seven years ago, but you don’t remember. Do you? I remember you, though." His voice was low and seemed strangely intimate for such a public place.

Really, if this was going to turn out to be another one of David’s rambling, pointless jokes Matt wished tonight, of all nights, he would just shut the fuck up. Please.

"I even remember what you were wearing."

"Okay," Matt grunted, yielding to what he perceived was probably the inevitable. Resistance, he’d been learning, was generally futile where David's obsessions were concerned. "What was I wearing?" he sighed.

"It was a New Year’s Eve party, and you were wearing…"

"Hey!" Tom burst into the room, arms windmilling with a flourish of boyish enthusiasm. "Does everybody know what today is?"

Instantly, two-thirds of Street Drum Corps quit hammering away on the helpless furniture. "What?" Frank asked.

"It’s Matt’s birthday!" Tom crowed, voice rising at least two octaves and many many decibels.

Great. So much for any fantasies he’d been harboring about remaining inconspicuous.

Straight away, amid hoots and "aw-w-ws" the obligatory chorus began, only somehow the familiar lyrics had been modified to include sentiments like "screw you." In spite of himself, Matt cracked a reluctant smile. Graciously, Stephen Perkins expressed an interest in administering the celebratory spanking, strictly in his capacity as master of ceremonies, if Tom wasn’t up to the task.

"No," Tom blurted, forestalling Stephen’s offer. "You know what Matt said he wants for his birthday? Matt told me what he really wants for his birthday is for us to come give him a bath."

Howling. Lots of it. Loud, spine tingling, eerily authentic sounding, dark-night-in-the-woods wolf calls echoed all around him.

"Seems kinda strange, but we’ll do it," Tom continued. "’Cause it’s what he wants, and Matt, it’s your day. So, you’re all invited! Over at the hotel, right after the show."

More laughter and jeering and mad dog barking followed Tom’s pronouncement. Before he knew it, and sort of against his will, Matt was grinning and laughing right along with the rest.

All except David, who was still sitting next to him acting strangely subdued and wearing an oddly closed expression.

*****

_"I do this from time to time_   
_where I like to think of you with me…"_

*****

Matt tumbled off stage and into the wings toweling his sweaty face and breathing like he’d just run a marathon. In a good way, though. The night and the show had been amazing, catching up both crowd and performers in a pulsing vortex of energy. Roars of approval still echoed from inside the theater. Slowly, he made his way through the packed backstage area, looking down, wiping salt tears from his eyes. Continuously being thumped on the shoulders by unseen hands congratulating him until suddenly he nearly collided with an immovable pair of high tops.  
  
"Hey, Matt." Shannon took a short step back. Not a very big step. He glared wide-eyed at his former band mate and smiled. Making the effort to be civil.

Jesus, Matt startled and squinted. This was so unlike the determinedly _un_ civilized little beast he remembered Shannon morphing into right after hearing that their bassist was thinking about leaving their band. Just _thinking_ about it, mind you -- well, hey, marriage’ll do that to a guy. And now here he was standing mere inches away, eyes gleaming ferociously, but lips curling upward with good will.

It was hard to believe.

Because pretty much everything about those private End Times just prior to Matt’s personal Mars apocalypse had etched themselves indelibly into his brain engrams, and recently all his memories had been stuck on ‘Repeat.’ He vividly recalled, for example, the initial hypothermia of Jared’s frigid facial expression. And watching how the icy, numbing pain seemed to be turning his heart to stone right before Matt’s eyes. And then, how quickly Jared’s face had sealed over again in a perfect mask of pale, tight-lipped restraint. From Shannon, however, there had been only a brief hesitation of stunned denial before the fraternal tantrum began. He’d gone off like C4, like poorly packed nitro, on one of his tyrannical, self-styled rants letting hurt and fractured syntax spill out of him like blood.

"Shannon," Matt responded carefully, conscious of how incredibly formal each syllable sounded as it exited his mouth. A hot trickle of sweat slid from his jaw to his neckline. He could practically feel the stare that was all but piercing the back of his retinas. Worming its way across his optic chiasm and inching towards his occipital lobe. Obviously, Jared was someplace close by, hence the cosmic concentrated effort at mind control. Thou shalt not hurt my brother. Ever again.

Yeah, break Shannon’s number one unspoken commandment and basically things stayed broken forever.

"Awesome show," Shannon offered, planting his feet on the floor in front of Matt like the Pillars of Hercules.

"Thanks."

"You guys headed over to party now?" That merciless, unblinking gaze was still boring into him.

"Uh-huh, guess so."

"Alright. See you there." And before Matt could draw another breath, Shannon was gone. Just like that.

*****

_"I do this from time to time_   
_where I want to taste you as you breathe…"_

*****

The room they’d given him at the hotel was actually rather nice. A well-appointed single with a low profile king bed and a wide view of the Los Angeles nightscape. From the window, if you knew where to look, you could see the western wall of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and off in the distance the illuminated exterior of the Church of Scientology.

Not that Matt was giving himself much opportunity to notice.

He sprinted for the shower without even stopping to pull a change of clothes out of his overnight bag. Time was of the essence. In his gut, he could feel the clock running down on some unknown timetable, tick-tick-ticking towards a launch date with fate.

His hands were shaking. He ran the water first too hot, then, too cold; he soaped his hair and, accidentally, his eyes. Which stung like a bitch and unleashed a torrent of swearing. He nearly tripped over himself lunging out of the shower stall and grabbing for a towel. With clumsy, fumbling fingers he struggled to secure it around his waist.

Get out, get out, get out, _now_. Every taut-strung nerve in his body was screaming at him. It was like being the driver in some liquor store heist get-away car. Step on the fucking gas. He bolted into the bedroom not even bothering to turn on the lights, there was just enough streaming through the bathroom doorway for him to see by. And, he caught himself thinking, if by chance someone might be watching his window from outside, maybe they’d be fooled into believing the room was unoccupied.

_I am not here…_

Suddenly, with a heart-stopping jolt, he heard a soft rapping on the door.

_I’m not listening…_

He recognized the familiar cadence immediately, heart sinking and feeling a pang of desperation. It was, he realized, exactly what he’d been waiting for all along.

_I’m in my head, and I’m spinning…_

Fuck. With Pavlovian certainty Matt’s feet traversed the short distance to the door, his sense of the inevitable overriding the screaming objections in his head. One peek through the peep hole confirmed what he already knew. Grey woolen coat over a navy blue hoodie. He looked like the Unabomber. Matt’s throat convulsed painfully on a dry swallow. He looked like a shimmer of water in the desert. Almost against his will, Matt's traitorous hand reached out to turn the door handle.

Soundlessly, Jared slipped in passed him through the narrow opening he’d created. Without a word, his former band mate flung off his coat tossing it onto the closest armchair, and threw the hood back from his head.

"Jared." Already Matt could hear the sounds of want and defeat in his own voice.

A crush of lips against his half-open mouth answered him. The warm glide of a tongue tip traced the edge of his lower lip, flooding his senses. Barely out of the shower, Matt could feel himself starting to sweat again. Jared smelled like cigarette smoke and the long evening in a too-warm theater; a hint of peppermint and cool California night air. But just as Matt’s arms came up to enfold him, he slid away coyly.

"Miss me? Please say ‘yes.’"

"Yes."

Damn. Instantly, it was like Jared had somehow managed to get his one hand on Matt’s throttle while the other was deftly shifting the gears of Matt's thought processes into neutral. And, Matt noted, if this roadster had a passenger seat, his scruples were experiencing distressingly little discomfort settling into it.  
  
He watched Jared stride across the room, disarming himself of his Blackberry and emptying the pockets of his skin-tight jeans onto the bedside table. Wallet, thin as a credit card. Lifestyles, ah… check. Some kind of natural carrageenan lubricant singles. Huh, convenient. Not his usual Gun Oil, but okay. Under his ribs, Matt’s pulse thudded hard and silent. A heartbeat later Jared’s belt hit the floor. Well, alright then. Looked like they were good to go.

Casually, Jared began peeling off shirts until he was down to bare skin. He turned and rolled his shoulders like he was flexing away tension there, muscles undulating in warm, fleshy contours meant to invite another’s touch. Matt couldn’t have dragged his eyes away if he wanted to. A potent, erotic hum began fueling the air of arousal in the room, filling in the distance between them. Plaintively, the last modicum of Matt’s restraint whimpered softly in his head, he really shouldn’t be doing this. Then, Jared unsnapped his fly and settled down on the mattress, methodically wriggling out of his pants.

"How did you find me?" Matt whined helplessly, inching closer. Too aware of how the pounding in his chest was actively setting off a lusty counterpoint in his groin.

"David told me which room was yours," Jared responded smoothly, tugging down the covers and sliding in between the sheets.

"Oh." Now there was a detail that would require a bit more thought, Matt decided. Just as soon as he was again capable of detailed thinking. But right at the moment, a burning blue look was returning his stare and effectively jamming all the circuits in his head.

"You look lonely over there," Jared purred, voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly losing his battle with indecision, Matt’s feet slid forward bringing him to the side of the bed. He caught a momentary glimpse of himself in the room’s mirror, just a vaguely disturbing, ambiguous gray outline in the semi-dark, but... Jared’s hand reached towards him, tugging on the towel wrapped around his waist and removing the last barrier between them. Delicate fingers stroked up his belly, then down into the fine hairs and onward sending shivers across his thighs.

"Missed you, too."

Matt’s toes gripped at the carpet and his breath hitched. Waves of sensation and emotion poured over him leaving him feeling immobilized. Gently, Jared massaged the suede-soft skin of his ball sac and hesitated, noting his quiet. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Matt stuttered. "I…"

With a single fluid motion Jared sat up again, sliding towards the edge of the mattress and wrapping his thighs around Matt’s legs. His hands pulled Matt’s hips closer as he lowered his head. The lightest flick of his tongue tip danced teasingly along Matt’s already stiff cock then drew him down deeply.

Instantly, the hushed vibration of seduction in the room roared and rushed to life in Matt’s ears. The sound, like lightening and thunder, deafened him to every other thing except Jared’s hold on him. And over him. Because suddenly, all Matt’s other thoughts ran dry leaving nothing but his overwhelming need to touch and be touched, and make the anguished months of memories real again.

Finally, decisively, he reached forward and grasped Jared’s shoulders, insistently pushing him back on the bed; crawling over him, stroking his limbs, kissing and nipping at him while slowly making his way up Jared’s restlessly rocking torso. HIs caresses missed nothing, studiously tonguing nipples and laving pulse points, savoring every sacred inch of him.

"Ah-h-h…" Beneath his tender assault, Jared bucked and moaned, making some of the most delightfully needy sounds Matt thought he had ever heard. Hungrily, he nibbled his way to the corner of Jared’s mouth, letting his calloused fingertips trail over the tense muscles along the side of Jared’s throat and teasing him breathless with tiny kisses.

He felt a pair of anxious hands groping their way down his back, grasping towards his buttocks. An urgent, upward thrust of Jared’s hips squeezed both their rigid cocks between their bodies. Together they rolled across the mattress, legs thrashing and tongues battling while their hands grappled frantically, kneading and sqeezing possessively at one another’s hard flesh.

Until at last, momentarily, Jared emerged victorious, on top, chest heaving, his face flushed with carnal exertion.

"You want it slow, or fast?" he panted.

"I want it _now_."

"You got it."

His arm stretched out, fingers scrabbling across the bedside table, and before Matt could say "Rubber Jonny" he was suited up and twitching dangerously under Jared’s attentively swirling thumb.

"Don’t get ahead of the game, okay?" Jared warned, straddling him and tottering upright on his knees while wrestling one-handed with the packet of lube.

"Trying not to," Matt grunted and, "Here," he said, "give it," taking the tiny package away from him since he could see Jared was about to start tearing at it with his teeth. "Let me." Working with both hands, and despite some obvious tremors, Matt quickly managed to rip the thing open and dispense its contents into his hand. "Practice makes perfect," he grinned.

He reached between the spread of Jared’s thighs and around behind him searching for home. "Oh!" Jared groaned at the first clumsy brush between his ass cheeks. Probing a little deeper, Matt found what he was searching for, a soft wrinkle of sensitive skin that flinched anxiously under his touch. He stroked gently and it yielded to him easily as he alternately inserted one slick finger after another. In and out.

"God, so good…" Jared whined, rocking back on Matt’s hand.

"You ready?"

"Yeah." Or as ready as he cared to be. Impatiently, Jared reached forward, braced his palms against Matt’s shoulders and began lowering his hips expectantly.

After so much time apart the first thrust came as a shock. Tight, wet, close, _hot_. Matt was just about to lose himself in the magnificence of it all, when he sensed Jared’s slight instinctive resistance to his steady upward press. Felt him tremble and strain. Heard the thready intake of breath that accompanied the small shudder that shook Jared’s thighs.

"You okay?" Matt hesitated, starting to ease himself back down on the mattress again..

"Don’t!" Jared gritted out, butt dropping, following Matt’s withdrawal, "…you dare…"

Tight-lipped, smothering a whine, he kept sliding lower into Matt’s lap until their bodies were flush. Ass to nuts. Breathing through his nose the whole time, his eyelids fluttering madly, Jared froze in place, unaware his nails were digging tiny crescents into Matt’s skin. An anxious flurry of involuntary muscle spasms were clutching wildly all around Matt’s throbbing member, making him fight the urge in his pelvis to flex up and grind.

"You all right?" Matt squeaked. "Can you move?" Please, I’m begging you.

"Getting to it." Hissing and huffing, Jared lifted up carefully, experimentally, then lowered himself again. " ’s been a while…" he groaned, stopping and starting fitfully. His brows knit together in a grimace as he bit down on his lower lip.

Until finally, "Fan-fucking-tastic," he growled from between clenched teeth. And soon enough, they’d settled into their old rhythm again.

It was sex like heaven.

There were so many ways to fucking love it. The silky glide as Jared rose and fell above him, the thin sheen of sweat that made his skin glow in the half-light, Matt’s own hips churning vigorously. Jared’s rock hard cock bobbing in front of his eyes just begging for a hand to grab on and tug. The firm sheath of muscles that massaged and caressed him with every push and pull. Yeah, about that. Even when he was the one receiving, Jared, like always, was completely in control. Leaving Matt with the clear impression his dick had been taken possession of. And afterwards, like a hunter’s trophy, Jared might not ever want to give it back.

"So good…" Jared mumbled, mouth sagging open and eyes slipping closed.

Each time Jared lifted up Matt arched down into the mattress, and when Jared’s hips dropped, he curled back up again. Hump and slide, their movements synchronized and sensuous; familiar, like a well rehearsed song. With practiced precision, Matt’s hand worked Jared’s leaking cock firmly, keeping the same steady tempo. In natural unison, they crested and rolled together like ocean waves, riding the deep swells tip-to-balls, and pushing Matt straight to his limit.

"Right there!" Jared gasped, his hips coiling and snapping down in a whirlpool of increasingly rapid circles. So close to the edge Matt thought he might drown before...

"Jay…" Matt moaned. Much too close. "I’m gonna…" His body jerked involuntarily, already sounding the last note and losing control. With less than an instant to spare, he dug in his heels and threw his head back, one final harsh thrust nearly lifting them both off the bed. The last thing he remembered hearing just before the dark at the back of his eyeballs turned red was Jared's triumphant cry, and then he was drifting blissfully away, being pulled down deep under the primordial surface.

Gradually, his vision cleared and the numbness began fading. It wasn’t quite like he’d spiraled into unconsciousness or anything, but whatever it was, it had been amazing and almost frightening, and literally fucking _awesome_. And powerful. And mutual. Jared was still sprawled across him heavily, his breathing slowly settling down into a somnolent semi-snore.

"We _must_ do this again sometime," Jared mumbled sleepily into his shoulder.

"Uh-huh," Matt agreed wholeheartedly, fingers trailing lightly over the warm curves of flesh beneath them. "Ah, ten minutes?" he suggested quietly. Hopefully.

For a second, nothing moved. Then, "Mmm," Jared hummed. "…’s do-able."

\----------

Sometime in the night while the windows were still dark and only a pale, gibbous moon lit the sky, Matt stirred and woke, a half remembered dream clouding his mind. Feeling sleepy and vaguely disconnected from his own limbs, he reached across the bed until his hand collided with Jared’s bare arm. Still there. Relieved, he stroked clumsily down the other man’s side.

A soft snort and puff of breath responded. Without really seeming to wake, Jared squirmed and wallowed around in the blankets until he’d successfully burrowed himself into the warmth of Matt’s embrace. After a few silent moments had passed, however, a sigh and a little stretch alerted Matt to the fact that Jared was no longer sleeping.

"You ready to go again?" his scratchy voice inquired.

Matt smiled and pressed his lips against the tangled nest of hair beneath his nose. Absolutely, because who could resist an invitation like that?

*****

_"I do this from time to time_   
_where I like to think of you with me._   
_From time to time."_

*****

Daylight proved to be a different reality entirely. Matt’s eyes cracked open to an empty bed and a room that seemed to have had the life sucked out of it. No note, not a trace of Jared anywhere. Not a single sign of his former presence. Reflexively, Matt grabbed his phone and checked his messages. Nothing.

Fuck. Well, he couldn’t think about that now, he’d think about it later. In fact, he probably wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. After staggering to the bathroom and packing up his few belongings, he shuffled and squinted his way down the hall to Tom’s room, mind and vision both suffering the painful haze of sex hangover.

The bleary, red-eyed stare that greeted him at the door didn’t seem to be doing any better, truthfully.

"Open bar?" Matt queried, mildly curious about how things had gone at the post Drum-off festivities.

"Sit down," Tom said as soon as he was inside.

It must have been some party. As expected, there had been all the usual rowdiness and shenanigans that Matt had long ago gotten his fill of. Women who couldn’t keep their tops on, guys who couldn’t keep their drinks down. Or, their fists to themselves. The private party room stocked with ‘expenses’ that record company reps would write off with a little creative bookkeeping.

Shannon, glowering in a corner by the bar.

But, then there had been a few other unanticipated surprise extras. Decorations and banners, for example. Gag gifts and balloons. Sloshy renditions of "Happy Birthday." A cake, even.

His wife.

Everything but the birthday boy.

‘Stunned’ didn’t really cover the quality of quiet that permeated Tom’s room. In Matt’s head, thoughts were tumbling down like shattered glass, sharp-edged and fragmented. Full of fractured images like her face, and the way she’d looked kissing him good-bye yesterday. That beautiful hotel room he’d just left. With the king size bed, and... Jared… and the numbing realization that it had all been carefully planned for something else. Secretly, by his band mates. Well intentioned enough. Right from the moment Atom had first told him they were staying over at a hotel…

And blinded by his own preoccupations, he’d been easy enough to lead down that path unsuspecting. Oblivious to the secret, the surprise. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he’d taken a fateful, sharp turn to the left.

Tom waited. Allowing the wordless, motionless silence between them to drag on, however painfully, until Matt finally ended it.

"What did you say to her?" His eyes felt gritty and surprisingly tearless, all things considered.

"I told her to go home and not worry," Tom said, watching him steadily. "That in spite of appearances, it was over."

Really, Matt wondered, dazed with astonishment. And how could he possibly know that? When Matt himself didn’t even know that.

"I’m not wrong," Tom continued, as Matt remained silent. Then added, "You look awful. You want me to drive you home?"

Home.

Matt drew an audible breath and laughed. A single mirthless, gasp of air wheezing out of his lungs.

"You don’t look much better," he jibed. "My car is here…It’s out of your way." His voice trailed off weakly.

"I’ll drive your car. David can follow us and then bring me back to pick up mine."

David.

Something in Matt’s weary brain hiccupped. Not a memory exactly, more like a static charge that hung in the air ungrounded in the wake of a storm. And while it was nothing that actually cracked open the entire safe of his new band family’s secrets, he nevertheless had the distinct impression the first tumbler had fallen into place.

"He’s downstairs getting coffee. Come on," Tom prompted. "You look like you could use some, too, and I absolutely could."

Before he knew it, Matt had been roused to his feet and herded out into the hall again. He stood waiting for the sound of the door to snick closed, his attention wandering while, swearing softly, Tom struggled with one last unruly bag. In a daze, Matt stared blankly down the long stretch of carpet that led towards the elevators, haunted by the feeling there was something oddly reminiscent about the entire scene. Something just beyond the reach of his conscious thought. He blinked. Maybe this was all just a bad dream?

That's when, suddenly, perspective took over. Dimensions flattened. And everything Matt could see about the situation converged at a point where the long lines of the floor and ceiling met in that imaginary place beyond the elevator doors. What did they call it? The vanishing point. In his head it was like staring into the upside-down world reflected in a camera lens. And with that thought, strangely, inexplicably, everything clicked. All that was missing from the moment was the sound of a tolling bell.

Bull’s eye.

Because the only real certainties in life were choice and change. And when it all finally came down, when you found yourself standing at the crossroads, the mission was to choose. Otherwise, the alternative…

"You got everything? We done here?" Tom inquired off-handedly.

"Yeah, I’m done," Matt exhaled.

His first step was a little shaky, but the next one came steadier. And the next. There right beside him, striding along comfortably, was Tom. Confidently, his band mate reached over and surrounded him with a one-armed embrace. Sharing a little of his strength and taking some of the weight off Matt’s shoulders. Something that, to Matt, finally felt right and very, very good.

Here’s your lifeline. If you want to, I want to.

\--end--

*****

additional A/N:

_"With an urgent, careful stare_   
_and some panic in those eyes,_   
_if I see you lying there_   
_hoping this was the last time,_

_If you hear a distant sound_   
_and some footsteps by your side,_   
_when the world comes crashing down_   
_I will find you if you hide._

_If you wish it, wish it now._   
_If you wish it, wish it loud._   
_If you want it, say it now._   
_If you want it, say it loud._   
_We all make mistakes._

_Here’s your lifeline. If you want to, I want to…"_

_-_ lyrics to _"Lifeline"_ from I-Empire


End file.
